


bathtub conversations

by Arzani



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, implied geralt/jaskier/yennefer, just boys being soft and caring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arzani/pseuds/Arzani
Summary: After a fight, Geralt tends to Jaskier's wounds. It's but a small scratch, but it reveals something else. Something Geralt has avoided thinking about: Time.Yet, Jaskier will have none of that overly-worried Witcher-dramatic.----Jaskier and Geralt in a bathtub. Because it seems in this fandom bathtubs are some special place where most of the deep conversations happen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 326





	bathtub conversations

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read the books nor did I play the games. So this is based mostly on the show and what little I could gleam from the internet and other fics.  
> Not betaed and I'm no english native speaker. Forgive me.

“Ouch!”

Water sloshed when Jaskier darted away from the pain out of habit. Calloused fingers brushed over his neck delicately, circling the wound almost apologetically. With a sigh he leaned back against the rim of the bathtub, sinking a little deeper into the warmth the water provided. Not too deep, though. Hands stopped him. All the healing salve would go to waste in the water and they both knew it.

“I’m becoming too old for wounds on the necks and running from monsters and getting attacked,” Jaskier whined. “You think I’d retired by now, but no such thing. There are still days we sleep under the stars and the moon, instead in comfy inns - or can you imagine - my own bed. Soft silks and sturdy wood. A good mattress. I’d definitely want a good mattress when I retire.”

While his voice was busy talking, his body was still and relaxed in the water. Careful hands dapped salve onto the cut he had received just earlier this day when a fucking drowner, of all things, had gotten to him. Hence the bath. Blood crusted his hair - blood and other stuff he didn’t want to give too much thought to. But Geralt behind him took care of that. Would take care of it, after he’d taken care of his wound. Priorities where everything for the Witcher.

“You’re not that old,” was hummed into his back. A hand reached beside his head to grab the sponge that had landed in the water. Instinctively he leaned forward to give Geralt better access. The feeling of water rinsing out all the grime off his head was wonderful. Jaskier relaxed under the touch. Even more than he already had.

“Ah, my dear, I assure you, I’ve been younger. You see, my mother used to say with age comes wisdom, but the way I see it, you’re either a fool or not. Going about, chasing monsters, I guess we fall into the fool-category.” He was silent for a heartbeat. Then he went on prattling. He wasn’t made to keep still. His body, yes. His mouth, though? Not at all.

“Don’t you ever think of a place you can grow old at? Ah, well, probably not, being all witcher-like and hunting monsters. I do remember you saying witchers retire when they slow, but... I’d like to imagine a house somewhere - well _somewhere_ \- with wide windows, sunlit rooms and high white walls. A sturdy bed. I mentioned the mattress didn’t I? We definitely need a good, large bed.”

And if he was smiling a tiny little bit, imagining rumpled blankets and sweat-soaked sheets … well Gerlat couldn’t see his face. Though, with the chuckle that accompanied the soaping of his hair, maybe someone thought the same. Jaskier could only imagine, but his imagination was wide.

“A library would be nice, as well. Maybe a training room for you?” Jaskier continued his fantasy, but was interrupted by a snort.

“I train outside,” Geralt commented, and added, like an afterthought even. “Fuck is training, anyway?” It made Jaskier grin.

“A stable then, for Roach. A guest room for Ciri for sure. Can’t sleep with us in our room, can’t she? That wouldn’t do for a young lady. Oh. The bed definitely needs to be big. Can’t leave _her_ out, I guess?”

Water sloshed again, when it was poured over his hair and Jaskier saw pink drops roll down his shoulder and chest. Soft fingers rubbed his temples, down his hairline, methodically erasing every trace there ever had been a fight this day. A scar would stay, though. Jaskier knew by now what left a mark and whatnot. He had learned over time.

“Mmh,” could be heard and then: “Probably wants a room for herself, still. She needs her space.”

Jaskier perked up with the words, only slightly straightening because it wasn’t often Geralt indulged him this much in his fantasies. But he was right. Yen would want her own room, to get away from the world when it all became too much for her. Or when she was in one of her moods. Or well, if she wanted to try some spell they weren’t allowed to see. Not that it stopped the need to have a bed fit for three.

“You’re right. A room for our beloved witch -” He ignored the ‘hm’, that sounded like ‘She will find out you called her that’. “- and one for our daughter and a guest room would do nicely. If it’s big, I can actually have an audience to perform for. You think people still want to hear me sing with rumpled skin and a scratchy voice? People do tend to get those when growing old.”

Fingers parted his hair, by now no more droplets ran down his back. The sponge was again floating in the dirtied water and Jaskier leant back against the bathtub, enjoying how Geralt enjoyed touching him. Caring for him. Showing his tender, soft side, only few people ever got to see.

“People will always want to hear you sing.” Geralt’s voice was husky and a shudder ran down his spine. His stomach clenched in the best of ways, while a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, threatening to split his face in half. Warmth filled his veins and it didn’t come from the bath. Geralt didn’t often comment on his singing and Jaskier cherished every compliment, the words worth way more than the coin his usual audience tossed at him.

He could feel how Geralt held a strand of his hair in his hand. Rubbed the hairs between his fingers “Also, you’re not that o-” and stopped, tension high where there hadn’t been any before.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, worried and when no answer came, turned around. A sharp tug at his hair made him hiss, but he didn’t care too much for the slight pain. With panic Jaskier searched Geralt’s face that stared at something in the palm of his hand. Lines of shock showed in the usually smooth forehead he just did not understand. What had happened?

“Talk to me, please,” Jaskier pleaded, hand darting for Geralt’s face. The witcher didn’t move. Rather he seemed to be in a freeze. When Jaskier touched his cheek, though, tenderly lifting the face so they could look into each others’ eyes, movement came back. The golden eyes were filled with … something achingly close to dread. 

“You have white hair.” It was but a whisper and it took a moment for the words to register in Jaskier’s mind. Then he sighed and slumped back slightly, his heart clenching. This time, it hurt. His gaze, though, never left the other.

“We do tend to get it when growing older, you’re aware. Not everyone becomes a white wolf in their youth, like you.” He tried to keep his tone light, but the look that hit him told Jaskier Geralt would have none of that. Fury sparkled in the golden eyes, but as always with his Witcher, fury covered worry and fear.

“You are not old, Jaskier.” It was pressed out through gritted teeth and even though Geralt kneeled in front of the bathtub, his spine had went rigid and hard. Out of instinct Jaskier reached for the man his heart loved so dearly, taking his face between his two hands. With his thumbs he pressed soothing circles into the skin. A small smile graced his face, but it was sad.

“I’m fifty-two, love. I’m old enough to have white hair all over me.”

He’d always known he wouldn’t outlive Geralt. He was merely human, while his Witcher was … well a Witcher. A being tend to live long and long past his own human years. Magic had made it so. It had reduced Geralt’s heartbeat and it had stretched his years. They both were keenly aware of it, more so as days and weeks passed by steadily. But it seemed Geralt had also ignored it. He had pushed it away just to be bitten in the arse by the realization that time couldn’t be stopped.

“All this talk about retiring…” Geralt mumbled. It shook Jaskier to the core to see something wet glinting in the edges of golden eyes. Oh no. No, no, no. He would have none of that. Not yet!

“was just that. Talk!” Jaskier interrupted the thoughts he knew would go south. His voice was firm, ernest, when he spoke. His eyes transfixed on the golden ones that stared, so open and vulnerable.

“I may grow old, but I’m not retiring, yet. I’m fifty-two, not eighty, Geralt. As long as my feet steadily carry me and my fingers are nimble enough to play and earn us a good night’s rest in some inn, I will follow you. I’m pretty sure this will hold true for the next ten, twenty years and while this seems like nothing in years to you… for me it’s a lot. A lot of years I will spent by your side. So stop fretting over one single white hair.”

Something shifted in Geralt’s demeanor and then, without a warning, Jaskier was assaulted in the best ways possible. Lips crashed against his, kissing him and kissing him even more. All he could do was give as good as he got. His hands tangled in white hair - actual white hair - to tug and direct the head where he wanted it to be. After a moment he felt Geralt shift, so he gave space. Only to laugh irritated when he saw that his Witcher stepped with him into the tub, fully clothed except for shoes.

“What are you doing, you big oaf?” Jaskier laughed, making room, before he was kissed again. Falling into the touch, he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck, pressing himself closer.

They kissed. They kissed until all their breath as well as the desperation was gone. Yet, when they separated and Geralt looked at him, Jaskier could still see some resemblance of worry. With his fingers he traced the lines around Geralt’s mouth. So many years had passed and still they were together. So much time in which Jaskier had learned to read the other. So much time in which Geralt had learnt to trust, to love and to open up. In the beginning Jaskier had been glad to be allowed to touch Roach. Now he was kissing a Witcher. His Witcher.

“What is it?” he asked. Instead of an answer, Geralt reached for the cut that had already started to heal, thanks to the salve. It prickled when it was touched.

Jaskier knew what was meant without the need to hear it, but after a moment Geralt spoke anyway. Time had taught them to communicate. Time had allowed them to understand. Jaskier Geralt’s silent voice of action and Geralt Jaskier’s need to hear words.

“Sometimes I’m afraid i won’t have those twenty remaining years with you. Not if we keep my lifestyle up. I wonder … if you” Jaskier arched an eyebrow and Geralt corrected himself almost automatically. “we should really think about retiring. I fear I won’t be able to keep you safe.”

The hand that had touched his cut stayed at his neck, just resting there idly. Jaskier enjoyed the connection, his eyes dancing with mischief. It seemed to irritate Geralt, much to his own amusement.

“What?” Geralt grunted and Jaskier leant forward, stealing a small peck.

“I’m not concerned.” His breath brushed kiss-swollen lips. Golden eyes flicked over his face. Searching. Trying to understand his ease. “You always protected me. No monster could truly harm me. No manticore, no werewolf, not even drowners.” A grin spread across his face at the scowl Geralt let loose. He hated drowners, no matter they weren’t that strong. “You protected me from the devil and his elves, from a djinn and even a golden dragon.” Again something shifted in the lines on Geralt’s face. He remembered, as Jaskier did. All of it. All the good and the bad, all the happiness and pain. The separation. The finding back to each other. “With you I survived angry past-lovers,” and of course Geralt growled, the jealous bastard. Always had been, always would be. Except for _her_. But that was a different story. “a war, even destiny.” With hunger the mouth in front of him snapped for his lips but Jaskier only allowed it for a moment, before he drew back. His eyes glinted, as the water slowly became cold. He wasn’t though.

“As I said: I’m not concerned. I have you. I have you and you have me.”

For twenty, thirty, maybe forty more years. And then, after that, Geralt would have a child-surprise and a sorceress. He would have a family and him. In his songs and his love. Until they met again. And they would - somehow.

But that, he wouldn’t say until another day. Instead he grinned, and slapped the witcher slightly on the chest.

“Let's get out of the tub. The water gets cold, and I’m feeling dirty again. Also, we have to hang your clothes at the fire, or else you catch a cold.”

And with that Geralt harumped, just as Jaskier had thought. He let himself be helped out of the water, and draped into a towel. Letting the evening fly by, as he would do every day.

“Witchers can’t get colds.”


End file.
